Stories, articles and poetry written by my late brother-in-law, Nadeem Sani
Like cats hissing and spitting in an alleyway dark,
Or dogs who snarl, growl and at each other bark.
With a feral, ferocious, unholy intensity we fight,
Trying to annihilate each other with all our might.
Of what use is this fierce battle, this pointless war,
Where both you and I are the losers by far?
“Can you help me with the venous system of the frog?” The question was directed at me by a pair of emerald green eyes in the Zoology Lab. As a 17 year old, I could feel my knees go weak, my heart fibrillating and the face flushing. I did help her – every neuron short circuiting, the blood cells whooping and dancing in the arteries, pumped by a heart now afflicted by tachyarrhythmia, the olfactory nerves surrounded by the ions of Havoc perfume she was wearing. The spear eagled belly-up frog in the dissection tray shot the Cupid’s arrow and within a month, I was proposing to the Colonel’s daughter. Proposal accepted and feelings reciprocated, we sat down to contemplate marriage, parent’s reaction, career and all other issues which two 17 year old in a make believe world could possibly contemplate. Its amazing how as a 17 year old, I was absolutely confident of my wisdom – a trait which I no longer possess at 46! She produced an omnibus solution for all our problems – real or imagined. “Why don’t you join the National Defence Academy? That way, you will be in Pune and have a better chance at asking for my hand.” The Colonel’s daughter advised.
That single sentence changed my life. She finished her Board exams and went off to join Fergusson College at Pune whilst I aimed for the NDA exams. The Board results came – I I managed decent marks and was eligible for admission in the local REC for engineering but my heart was set on her. And the path to her traversed through NDA. My parents advised me against the folly of changing my life’s goal on a chance teenage remark, my friends ridiculed me. But I had recanted my life’s ambition of joining Indian Institute of Science for Nuclear Physics. I now wanted to graduate from NDA, get married to her and live happily after. No one – not even a distant cousin – in my family had served in the Armed Forces. The brighter lot became Doctors and the not so bright became teachers. Now the brightest amongst them had just turned into a renegade and was doing the unthinkable. The family elders called a council and ordered me to be present. I was made to sit in the centre and advised, threatened, cajoled and blackmailed to give up my obsession. But love is steadfast in adversity and so I remained stubbornly committed to my goal. There were mutterings about my dad not bringing me up properly, about me becoming the black sheep of the family etc etc but I just did not give in. So, NDA it was – I had prevailed, our love had prevailed!
So, on 23rd of January 1981, a romantic me arrived at Pune railway station with eyes full of stars. Prior to reporting to NDA Wing, my primary task was pilgrimage to Fergusson College to meet her. I walked across the gravelly path to meet her in front of the Stats department. She was looking so heart stoppingly pretty in a dark brown harem trouser and a white kurta…… “Let’s go and grab a cup of tea at Vaishali” she suggested. We settled down at one of the table and ordered tea and samosas. She kept her books aside, opened her bag and extracted and envelope. “I am getting married. Please do come for the reception” she said as she handed me the wedding invitation card.
Literature is a barometer of the degree of advancement of a civilisation. At its nascent stage, a civilisation or empire is Spartan, struggling to survive and extend its boundaries and influence. Economic prosperity follows this period of expansion. Free of the need to survive and fight for its existence, it turns to encouraging and patronising literature, arts and culture. The Sistine Chapel would not have been possible without the patronage of a cash rich Vatican, Shakespeare may not have written if the multitudes thronging Globe Theatre were missing.
Coming to the present day, it is but obvious that most writers require financial patronage not only to get the bread on the table but also to have their writings published, propagated and disseminated to their audience. The trigger for writing may be a deep seated angst in the author to express himself but he still needs the patronage of the critics and the adulation of the multitudes to spur him on! As my daughter so succinctly put it – even God needs devotees to worship him. Without the devotees, God is just a figurine on a cross or a grand marble statue in an equally grand temple.
The moot question is – who judges a book and deems the author to be worthy of adulation? In pragmatic terms, the common masses judge and deem a book good by buying a copy. This brings us to a more elitist question – who ensures that the taste of the hoi polloi is good and their money is spent in promoting a good author? An obvious dichotomy exists here – for if the critics are to decide the vexed issue of judging and promoting good literature, what happens to the individual free will and choice? And if free will and popular concept is the final arbitrator of good writing, mankind may be saddled with kitsch imitating as literature!
Fortunately, I don’t seem to have this dilemma in my personal reading habits. I read esoteric stories recommended by critics and borrow vampire romances from my daughter also. What I am able to appreciate as an individual is good, what I don’t like is bad – sort of MY WILL, I WILL. And I don’t force my version down anyone’s throat. Am I wrong?
“Please ensure that everything is done exactly as I have instructed you Commander”. The voice was dry and crisp; devoid of any personal warmth. He was sitting behind a polished mahogany table adorned with the usual paraphernalia of trophies and stuff that Admirals have. I was conscious of the soft carpet beneath me, the background hum of the AC and the aura of power the cabin conveyed. The last sentence was a signal to me that my audience was over and I was politely being told to get out. As I collected my files, charts and other papers used for briefing him, I could not help being transported back in time.
Those days, an armed force’s Training Academy was everything a small town teenager could possibly dream of and aspire for. Well maintained hedges, wide avenues, imposing stone buildings and a huge mess with Italian etched glass façade at the main entrance – the works. The routine was tough but enjoyable – we got up at 5 AM and after a hectic day of PT, Drill, academics and weapon training, we passed out by ‘Lights out’ at 10 PM. Spit and polish, starched khakis, weapon training, horse riding – these were the ingredients of fantasies for an Indian teenager in the early eighties.
There were fourteen of us from the same term in the squadron. We front rolled together, drilled together, did our mischief together and were given disciplinary punishments together. Sort of ‘One for all and all for one’ if you get the drift. And yes, we competed fiercely with the other squadrons together. The competitive flame was fanned and kept raging by our officer instructors. Fauj, after all, was and is about winning – there are no runners up in War! And to win, the magic mantra is to continue even when you feel like giving up – to throw in that extra punch when your muscles are screaming for mercy, to run that extra yard when the lungs are burning and bursting.
There were competitions in almost aspects of Training – games, drills, PT, academics, riding etc. But the most prestigious competition to win was the Josh Run during the Camp – an event which was the ultimate test of endurance, raw guts and sheer will power. The camp itself was a 5 day affair wherein we stayed in tents and trenches amongst the Western Ghats, practicing our military skills. Josh Run was a 40 Km point to point run cum forced march in the Ghats carrying our rifles and full military back pack. The teams had to move over the mountainous terrain using contour maps (No GPS those days) for navigation. It was tough grueling effort even for a bunch of physically fit cadets – more so because you were competing against the other teams and just did not want to lose. Moreover, it was a team event – you could not leave stragglers behind – either your entire team made it or it did not!
Our team was hell bent on winning the trophy and we had a game plan. The comparatively weaker cadets in the team were divested of their rifles and packs to ameliorate their efforts right at the beginning of the run. So Shyam Saxena and his ilk ran unencumbered in their military fatigues with no other weights to tire them. The competing teams started were flagged off at 15 minutes interval that November morning amongst the green mountains and valleys. Each team had to navigate to the given point where the “All In” report timing was recorded and grid co ordinates for the next point were revealed. We ran as if our lives depended upon it. The tougher amongst us carried double rifles and pack to atone for certain other’s inability to carry their load and keep up. Till the penultimate reporting point, our team was coming first as per the recorded timings.
Disaster struck just 2 km short of the stadium which was finishing point. One member of the team fainted and collapsed. Remember, Josh run was a team event and there was just no way we could leave him behind. The stretcher was unrolled and the team re organised. We made two groups to carry the stretcher and asked the weaker group to carry their own stuff and additional rifles for the last stretch. Not tied to the beleaguered stretcher groups, Shyam moved ahead and was the first cadet to enter the stadium with two rifles slung on his shoulders. What a tumultuous welcome he got from the spectators! The Commandant was present at this time and he was suitably impressed by a cadet who came in first with TWO rifles slung over his shoulders. We laboured into the stadium carrying the still unconscious cadet after 30 minutes. Things had become normal by then and we got some polite applause. In his valedictory address, the Commandant praised Sam no end, obviously impressed by what he saw with his own eyes!
Jerking my thoughts back to the present, I finished collecting the papers. I got up, saluted the Admiral and turned towards the door. While passing through the door, the gleaming brass name plate was in stark contrast to the faded golden Commander’s stripes on my shoulders. The brass plate read “Admiral Shyam Saxena“.
One of the benefits of spending 22 years in the armed forces is that you can conjure up an anecdote almost at will. I find this attribute very helpful in a social gathering wherein starry eyed pretty women listen very attentively to my fiction-based-on-truth tales. It is indeed unfortunate that no HR Head seems to have been impressed by my story telling ability so far………..
This one goes back about 8 years to a time when I was posted to Defence Staff College in the salubrious climes of Coonur near Ooty. It is amazing how responsible and mature adult males can quickly regress to behaving like teenage rowdies when placed together in a group. Perhaps it’s that exclusive masculine bonding wherein males come to their actual mental level; as explained by the popular saying that men will always be boys! Or maybe it’s the resonance of masculine hormones in company of each other that lowers the overall IQ level…
As a part of this regression effect, I developed an insane passion to learn horse riding. This overriding (no pun intended) passion overcame all rational thoughts and sane warnings. Mothers who have seen their boys often loose their brains in obviously stupid pursuits will vouch for the fact that once bitten by the masculine bug, no boy will heed to any amount of reasoning or restrictions. So, right at the beginning of the term, yours truly announced from the ramparts of his drawing room that he will be taking up horse riding. My wife pleaded and cajoled, begged and threatened in equal measures, but then, masculine pride ……..I could envisage myself galloping away, mane flying, the thud thud of hooves, cool wind on my face on the green slops of Ooty. After all, don’t the westerns depict the hero doing the same gracefully and effortlessly?
So the home budget was adjusted and my wife’s lipstick money diverted to acquire white breeches, new tee shirt, riding boots, pith hat, gloves and riding crop – the works. Unfortunately in India, they don’t allow you to carry the trusty old colt six shooter in a low slung holster! And the College did not allow the novices to wear jingling spurs … but so what? A bit of adjustment here and there to chase my dream was fine by me.
The fateful day dawned – the entire household was in turmoil since the master-turned- cowboy of the house was to court the first equine (making others canine?) love of his life! My wife got up early and watched me as I strutted around in those high heeled riding boots feeling the master of the Universe. She was decent enough to see me off at the door to see me and tell me to have a good time.
I reported to the riding school half an hour before time to choose a handsome looking mount. The new riding shoes squeaked, the hat and gloves gave off that off-the-shelf smell while the old hands at riding looked on indulgently and even had the decency to wish the imposter-me good luck. The first shock came when I had to mount the horse – to my horror and chagrin; I discovered that when I raised my foot with great difficulty to place it in the stirrup, the horse had this wicked and uncanny knack to step forward. Damn – this never happens to Clint Eastwood in the movies! After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, I could slowly feel my ego floating earthwards. However a timely advise from the riding instructor saved the day and I managed to haul myself up on the saddle.
Reins in hand, feet in stirrup – from my regal perch I surveyed the mortal world below. Our group started walking towards the enclosed riding area. At last cowboy Nadeem was in his rightful place, one hand on the thigh, other holding the reins, back erect. Who said that dreams and fantasies cannot be converted into reality?
Once inside the riding area, I was introduced to trot – a gentle run by the horse where the rider gracefully rises and sits backs in consonance with the horse’s motion. Ha! there seemed to be something wrong with my horse – when I rose the horse went down and vice versa. So I spent a jarring 15 minutes trotting. The gluteals got sore; the inner thighs chafed against the horse-saddle combine and got scraped. The charm of horse riding was fading fast. But two factors kept me at it – sheer, stupid masculine pride and off course the ‘selection and maintenance of aim’ bit drilled into us as armed forces office.
After warming up, we were taken to the open filed for ‘advanced riding’. You know, there are various descriptions of being hurled in the air and falling. The protagonist in most books float in the air, have the time and presence of mind to note the details of surroundings and the exact position of the antagonist. He breaks his fall gracefully and executes his next move to defeat his opponent. Movies tend to show the same situation in slow motion with the hero triumphant in the end. In my humble opinion, this is all hogwash. One moment you are on the horse all hoity-toity and the next, you are sprawled in an undignified heap in the nullah struggling to decipher what happened. I could feel the ice cold water and muck. The horse threw me off and bolted. Thankfully nothing was broken except my pride. My riding was not over as yet – as per traditions, I had to catch the horse and get it back to the school. The next 3 hours were spent walking in swishy cold boots trying to seduce the horse in letting me pick up the reins so that I could lead it back.
Hungry, wet, smelling of slime and streaked with mud, I struggled home. The sparking white breaches had taken a curious hue of black – green and brown; the shoes were muddy and the helmet broken. It was a weary ex cowboy who rang the bell of his domain to be greeted by the lady of the house. My wife inspected me from head to toe and said poker faced “What happened cowboy? The horses not behaving today?” Till date, I have not forgiven her for that remark.
Over the last month, I have had the good fortune to read 4 books with Indian themes/authors namely Sea of Poppies by Amitava Ghosh, White Tiger by Adiga, Zoya Factor by Anuja Chauhan and Q & A by Vikas Swarup. The first two books are as distinct and different from the later two as cheese from chalk. The Sea of Poppies and White Tiger talk about the Dark Age India with its burden of caste, creed and economic woes in all the glorified trappings of macabre morbidity – considered almost mandatory by the literati to garner Booker and other awards. The later two novels are about a resurgent, modern, positive and confident India – and perhaps more fun to read. A tad shallow compared to Amitava Ghosh but fun all the same.
Adiga and Ghosh would require a separate blog entry for comparison since both the books deserve a detailed dissection. At this point I would like to record my opinion by saying that I was amazed at the fact that the 2008 Booker went to Adiga.
Coming back to the central issue of this particular blog, there exists a certain degree of supercilious intellectual snobbery when it comes to Indian authors and theme – maybe a hangover from our colonial past. Why is it that a book which depicts Indian doom and gloom scores higher on the literary scale than one which depicts Indian boom and bloom? As a case in point, I am taking the liberty of comparing The White Tiger with Zoya Factor. I can already hear the cries of ‘Sacrilege’, ‘Ignoramus’ and whatever else that the intellectuals name lesser mortals. I plead guilty to being an average reader and take special pleasure at being a non intellectual. I enjoy what I enjoy without heeding to the qualifications and labels. My moods decide what I read and like – my reading habits are not bound within the narrow confines of what the critics deem good.
But seriously – read the two books. Except for the rather brilliant stroke of using the Chinese premier as an anchor, I found the White Tiger absolutely ordinary. A typical run of the mill storyline, no creativity, the story telling is ordinary and the research definitely poor. The last factor can be vouched for by any ordinary Indian living in this country – there are enough fallacies especially about rural life in UP and Bihar. Perhaps the book appears charming and creative if you are wearing the blinkers of intellectualism with pretensions of being an Indian whilst staying abroad as a NRI. Or it may appeal to the Gora Sahib who can smile indulgently at his brown protégé for having learnt the language, ways and views of the Sahibs! My whole being cried out aloud that this depiction is not of the 21st century India – my India is alive and finally awakening to its tryst with destiny. I don’t need to parade the last vestiges of gloom in front of my ex foreign masters or others for critical fame. I must admit to the cowardice of pushing myself to finish reading the White Tiger since it was a Booker award winner. I did not want to squirm and appear illiterate in the company of my more intellectual friends who look down with disdain upon lesser mortals who can’t finish repugnant Booker winners.
But I definitely enjoyed reading the Zoya Factor. The author, Anuja Chauhan, is from the ad world and as the write up professes, this is her first foray into writing anything longer than a 60 second commercial. She writes about a resurgent and contemporary India, about India winning the World Cup in cricket and not about India of the Dark Ages! Admittedly the storyline is weak, perhaps bordering on comical, but there is zest, energy and contemporariness to the whole book. Reading it is like stepping out in the fresh air and light after the claustrophobic confines of Adiga’s India. The language – especially in the first half – is amazingly humorous. Anuja probably has chosen her immediate environment and associates as the background for the novel and she has sketched the background and its characters beautifully. There is creativity, there is comedy, there is a certain contemporary Indianess to the writing and there are no pretensions at taking a shot at Booker. In fact given a good scriptwriter who can translate Anuja’s hilarious Hinglish into Hindi, we have a sure shot Bollywood winner here. Do I see noses wrinkling in distaste over the inane plot and comic Hinglish one liners amongst those who have read this book?
This is the intellectual snobbery I am talking about. Describing the roadside open sewage in graphic details spread over three pages of text is intellectual but making the reader laugh and enjoy contemporary creativity is trivial. And that is precisely why I am writing about two books which are at the opposite end of the spectrum – The Booker award winning White Tiger and Anuja Chauhan’s first foray in writing – Zoya Factor. I admit that the comparison itself is unfair but the moot point is – I enjoyed reading about Zoya !!
I was introduced to Richard Bach through Jonathan Livingstone Seagull gifted by my father on the day I graduated from the National Defence Academy. The book helped ease my guilt on my non-conformal, iconoclastic and at times rebellious behaviour in the hallowed precincts of the premium defence establishment and probably set the tenor for the rest of my life.
I stayed with Richard Bach as I grew up – paid heed to the Messiah, was introduced to Leslie Parish and even wrote letters for the child-me like Richard in Running from Safety. However, the most important fallout of Richard’s dialectics was my quest for a soul mate – the single, all embracing, all compatible woman on earth with whom I would be sharing the rest of my life. And I was lucky – our love blossomed in letters espousing and exploring the postulations of Bach. Oh it was romantic! We agreed to marriage based on those letters before we actually met each other. It was – we believed – the conjugation of mind and soul with the benign figure of a smiling Richard Bach in the background.
We settled to a beautiful married life – shared our work, thoughts and philosophy; kind of grew up together. But as we grew, I started getting these wee little doubts – is this all? I mean, mankind has survived and evolved by its inbuilt desire to push the envelope, resist the status quo and desire more. Is there only one soul mate? How are soul mates decided? Who decides? How come soul mates are from opposite gender only? At this phase of my life, the real-life Richard separated from Leslie Parish and kind of destroyed the Illusion ………
Our growth – my soul mate’s and mine – was not limited to starry eyed romance. We postulated theories on almost everything – and wondered at the obvious inequality and unfairness of the world. Our earlier attempts at answering the questions of inequality was rooted in a rational world – people are privileged because they have worked harder and are more gifted. Any sane person can tell that this was absolutely humbug – how could two equally gifted and equally hardworking people get the same breaks in life if one was born a poor villager and the other the son of a rich industrialist?
Born and bred in the Orient, the belief in reincarnation and indestructibility of the soul has always been a half serious part of life. The more we thought, the more this rather irrational philosophy appealed to our intellect. If one were to accept the irrational belief that the soul is indestructible, that it chooses to be reincarnated for a specific purpose – the whole world starts to appear rational and everything can be explained.
Brian Weiss came into my life during a long sailing to Korea. I remember getting goose pimples reading him. It was almost eerie that someone across the globe was experimenting and collecting rational proof on the hypothesis of indestructibility of souls and reincarnation. Weiss reinforced our beliefs but threw up a host of questions on the earlier premise of a single, compatible, opposite gender soul mate! Not that I had come to love my wife any less but there had been a series of friendships post marriage with various people wherein I felt that special bond which defied logic. With this newfound reinforcement to my philosophy, I could surmise that these people were probably traveling with me through the eons in different forms, different relationship.
And then I went for a short training course where I met her. The bonding, the chemistry, the friendship was so strong that I was forced to admit that she was also a soul mate. Two soul mates ? Hello – isn’t that concept flawed? But my feelings defied conventional wisdom – she was definitely a soul mate.
I had been a fan of Paulo Coelho for a long long time. And Brida came along just at the time when I was grappling with this inner turmoil. The question which lingers in my mind is – am I using these authors and their works to justify my deeds and feelings or to understand my deeds and feelings?
I think there should be a serious research done on the influence of ‘cut and paste’ command in the realms of academics in particular and the society in general. This ubiquitous command has given every individual the ability to plagiarise at the click of a mouse. The morality of this issue would depend upon which side of the fence one belongs to – taken from a different and rather liberal perspective, plagiarism makes for a very effective system for dissemination of information! On a more serious note, let’s consider this – without the facility of ‘cut and paste’, an individual would mandatorily need to read through and copy the text/synopsis/what-have-you. This would atleast ensure that he ( or she) reads what is being plagiarised and perhaps even understand some part of it. As a freelance editor, I frequently get manuscripts which are so blatantly borrowed from the net that the new owner does not even bother to get the numbers/genders/timelines in consonance with the rest of his text. In a similar vein, my children ‘research’ their projects on the net – and produce fabulous looking reports that does their father proud. Atleast they don’t have the pretensions or snobbery of claiming to have submitted an original document ! So, is this ‘cut and paste’ making us more knowledgeable by more effective dissemination of knowledge or is it ‘dumbing down’ our intellect by reducing our ability of original thinking ? Maybe I can prevail upon my daughter’s class teacher to hold a debate on the topic.
I have finally succumbed to peer pressure and am commencing to blog. Why did I resist so long? In this age of electronic communications and instant messaging, I still cherish the good old fashioned handwritten letters, meetings and heated arguments, backslapping and (even) backstabbing, the general bonhomie of meeting like minded people over a beer and the imperfect but interesting world of smoke and sweat.
The thought of writing stuff on the screen for everyone to read is a wee bit scary. A hundred ‘what if’ scenarios run through your mind.One of my friend quoted an ancient chinese(?) proverb which says something like ‘A journey of a thousand miles is begun with a small step’. Wise people those ancient Chinese be! They have managed to give a cloak of respectability to my efforts.